As the column marched past, he stood in his stirrups, caught in the moment, fully mindful of the sketch artist from Harper's Weekly, Winslow Homer, who stood behind him, working furiously with charcoal to capture the moment, the photographer from Brady's by his side, hidden beneath his black curtain, as he struggled to focus his camera.

The wagons laded with fresh bread were by the side of the road, quartermaster soldiers pulling out the loaves and cut slabs of smoked ham, handing them out to the passing ranks, one to each line of four, and even the most hardened cynic, who might not be roused by the song, could at least respond to this largesse of a grateful republic.

And we '11 fill the vacant ranks

Of our brothers gone before,

Shouting the Battle Cry of Freedom!

Cheer echoed onto cheer, caps were off, rifles held aloft, battle-scarred flags fluttering in the afternoon breeze.

The column pressed on, heading south, heading back into the war.

Dan Sickles turned to his staff. "My God," he gasped, "this time we will win!"

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

August 18,1863 5:00 P.M.

He's done what?"

Grant came to his feet, his camp chair falling over behind him. Ely Parker held the telegram and Grant snatched it, scanning the few lines, a relay of a message from a reporter with the New York Tribune, that Sickles's army was across the Susquehanna and moving south.

"I've already sent a query back," Ely replied. "The telegraph lines started buzzing with it just minutes ago. I'll see what more I can find."

Grant turned and slammed his fist on the table. General Ord, who had been sitting quietly with him, waiting for dispatches as to the running fight unfolding with Hampton forty miles to the southeast shook his head.

"Always said that son of a bitch would go off half-cocked the moment he had the chance."

Grant said nothing, struggling to rein in his temper. It had been a tense day. The raid by Hampton had severed communications down along the Susquehanna. That was to be expected; he was surprised Lee had not tried something like this before now, but the sudden dropping of the lines out of Perryville just after midnight had baffled him. He had assumed that some rebel sympathizers, working in concert with Hampton, had been the culprits, and it had been a bit unnerving. Though he assumed Lee would not try an all-out assault on Washington, nothing in war was ever assured and he had silently fretted ever since Ely had awakened him with the news just before dawn.

Now he knew. Damn it, he knew.

"I bet he cut the lines himself," Ord said, as if reading Grant's mind. "Get across and halfway to Baltimore before you can even hope to call him back. Then what are you going to do?"

General Logan came into the tent and Grant was aware that out in the headquarters compound there was a real stir, men running back and forth, shouting comments about Sickles.

Ord took the coffeepot off the small stove and poured himself a drink, looking over at Grant "Well, is it true, sir?"

"I'm not sure yet. Only a newspaper report. But yes, I think it's true. He knows I can't reach him, not with Hampton cutting up and the lines down."

Ely came back into the tent, holding several more telegrams, and handed them to Grant.

All were the same. Reports from the Associated Press, one from the Philadelphia Inquirer, complete to a brief description of bands playing and flags flying as the Third Corps set off just after dawn, the rest of the army set to follow.

It was true. Damn it!

He tossed the telegrams on the table for Ord and McPherson to read and stepped out of the tent. At the sight of him the dozens of officers milling about froze. The look on his face stopped all of them in their tracks.

"I think we have better things to do than run about like a bunch of old housewives chasing a headless chicken."

No one spoke, but within seconds the area around his tent was a ghost town. He struck a match on the tent post and puffed a cigar to life.

Grant had studied the maps till they were burned into his memory; he knew what would unfold. First it was dependent on Lee far more than anything Sickles did. If, as Grant assumed, the attack on Washington was nothing more than a feint to try and draw one or both of them out before they were fully ready, Lee had indeed succeeded. If Washington was still his main goal, which Grant had doubted all along, Lee would still have two days to do his worst. He would trade Baltimore for Washington; the taking and securing of that town would be too much for Sickles to resist, and that would delay his advance even longer.

But no, Lee wanted to destroy the Union armies, not to cut his own army's guts out trying to take a city. It was exactly how he would do it. It was the mistake that McClellan and all the others had never fully grasped. It was always Lee; Richmond was secondary and would fall once Lee was removed. If McClellan had gone into the Peninsula with that in mind and acted aggressively, all of this would be moot now.

Lee wanted the Army of the Potomac, and now Sickles was heading straight at him.

There was now, as well, a darker thought. Had Sickles acted alone, or had someone goaded him? Surely it wasn't Lincoln. Grant found that impossible to accept. They had given each other their word and lived to it.

Stanton?

But why?

Why risk all now, when in another three weeks everything would be in place, and with a united front he could have advanced, combined with the garrison in Washington outnumbering Lee at more than two, perhaps even three to one with rifles in the held.

There was no sense in wasting thought on it now. All of that was now out the window. He would have to start afresh as of this moment.

Regardless of its leadership, Grant had no doubt that the Army of the Potomac was a hard-fighting lot All the rivalry between East and West aside, they were men that could sustain ten, fifteen thousand casualties in a day, something that he had seen only at Shiloh, and then turn around and do it again. Approximately forty-five thousand men. If given good ground and an open fight, one that Sickles did not bungle, they just might make a damn good accounting of themselves. But only if Sickles did not bungle.

Of course he'd send the order out to recall. There was a chance he could reach Sickles before nightfall, and under pain of relieving him from command pull him back from this folly. But he knew in his heart that that would be an exercise in futility. The man was too crafty. Grant knew that no general was entirely above playing the game at times, making sure a dispatch was lost or a telegraph line cut yet again.

No, he would have to recast all on the assumption that Lee and Sickles would meet, maybe as early as tomorrow afternoon, definitely within two days.

He stepped back into the tent.

"Ely, write up a telegram of recall."

"Send it on the open wire?"

Grant hesitated.

No, he couldn't do that. It'd be in every paper in the country within two hours, revealing dissension in the ranks, confusion, and could even trigger a panic. If Stanton had directly ordered Sickles to advance, especially based upon information of which Grant was not aware, perhaps if Lee had indeed attacked and Grant sent a recall, it would bring into the open a confrontation that Lincoln would have to address on the spot If Washington was on the verge of falling and he ordered Sickles back, it could be a disaster, even though he knew the chance was remote.

He shook his head.

"No, Ely. No telegram. A sealed dispatch. You are to take it personally. I will draw it up."

"Are you going to fire him?" Ord asked.

Grant looked over at his old friend, who should have known better than to ask. Ord said nothing and just shook his head.

"General Ord, let's get this fracas with Hampton wrapped up. I want you to see to it; I don't have time now." Ord nodded, saluted, and left, McPherson following. He sat down and began to draft the dispatch, knowing it was already a useless exercise. And in his mind, he began to contemplate how he, and the army gathered around him, would respond as well.